


And Family Means No One Gets Left Behind

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family, Gen, Or at least better than expected parenting under horrific circumstances, Possibly a fix-it, good parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-08-07 17:30:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16412804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: Earendil returns home to find it burned to the ground and his sons missing, presumed captured by the Feanorians. He does the logical thing.He goes after them.He's not entirely expecting what he finds when he gets there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally on Tumblr. I don't own the Silmarillion.

The sea is vast, and Earendil’s boat is small upon it. Elwing flies on and on and never sees him. The Silmaril gives her strength to fly on until she collapses, alone, on the beaches of Aman.

Ulmo returns her to her human state. The moment he does, Elwing breaks with sobs for all the lost: her children, her husband, and her brothers, so long ago. So many people have vanished, never to return.

Then she picks herself up and marches toward what she hopes is civilization.

 

Earendil sails desperately. He knows what fate eventually awaits his family if he fails.

But he cannot sail forever. The warning in his heart and the state of their supplies agree; they must return.

Before they even reach the shore, it is apparent that they have come too late.

The city is burned. Dead. From the looks of things, it has been for months now.

They all search for their families, but the search is in vain. Even the dead have been cleared away.

Only one group of elves remains that would do that, so, with heavy hearts, they return to the boat and head for the Isle of Balar.

Earendil listens to Gil-Galad’s account of what befell the Havens. “And my wife?” he asks, his hands holding with a white knuckle grip to the back of the chair he refuses to sit down in. “My sons?”

“Survivors report seeing a woman with a blazing gem fall from your tower,” Gil-Galad says quietly.

She could not have been pushed; the sons of Feanor would have claimed the gem first if that had been the case. Earendil chooses to believe she fell. If she jumped . . . 

His wife is more Elf than Man. It is likely she will fall under the fate of the Elves, and it is said Mandos will not release those slain by their own hand. He has to believe she fell. It so easily could have happened. If the Feanorians had approached her with drawn swords, she would have retreated, and it would have been easy to forget her surroundings and retreat too far.

Yes. That must be what had happened.

“My sons?” he croaks.

“They were not among the fallen, and we looked long. We believe they are still alive,” Gil-Galad assures him.

“But you do not have them.”

Gil-Galad hesitates. “No.”

Then the sons of Feanor hold them. 

They must. They must still hold them. They cannot have taken them only to abandon them in the woods like his wife’s brothers. They cannot have grown weary of fearful, crying children and abandoned them. They cannot have decided there was not enough food to go around in the cold winter months.

 _Please,_ he begs the Valar, _please, whatever pity remains in their hearts, let it have been enough for this. Let it hold just a little longer._

“Where were the Feanorians last seen?” he asks.

“You cannot mean to go after them,” Gil-Galad says. “Well do I understand the urge, but you have responsibilities here.”

“You do not understand,” Earendil says flatly. “They are not your sons. You are handling the people well enough. I have no confidence that the sons of Feanor are showing the same concern for my sons. Where are they?”

Gil-Galad has little more than rumor. Earendil nods his head and goes to prepare to depart.

 

His companions each have at least one member of their family that yet lives, so Earendil insists that they remain behind. He goes alone.

The search is long and hard. He has only rumor to follow, and little enough of that. The search drags on four years before he at last catches the trail.

He has no men with him to attack the camp, even if he dared with his sons still inside it. Instead, he continues to trail after them, trusting the forest to hide him.

Fortune favors him. He has been following for only a few days when an opportunity comes.

He has stopped beside a pool that has not yet fallen to Morgoth’s foul poison when the laughter of children suddenly rings through the woods.

Earendil’s head whips toward the sound.

A moment later, two young boys burst from the trees. The pool must have been their goal, but they freeze when they see him.

“Elrond,” he says hoarsely. “Elros.”

It has been so long since he has seen them that he is ashamed to admit to himself that he doesn’t know which is which.

The boys back away from him, fear evident in their eyes.

“It’s alright,” he says, rising slowly. “It’s alright, you’re safe now.” He steps forward.

That’s when an elf in Feanorian red bursts from the trees. Earendil draws his sword without another thought. “Behind me!” he shouts, but the boys don’t listen.

 

There is a stranger with the twins, and he has drawn a sword. That’s really all Maglor needs to know to draw his own. “Back to the camp, now!” he shouts. This section of woods is safe enough, and far better for them to run through it alone towards safety than to linger here in whatever strange trap the Enemy has left.

The twins vanish, and he feels a moment of relief. At ten, they are starting to insist that they are old enough not just to be trained but to participate in fights, and Maglor has no intention of allowing it.

That’s all he has time to think before the stranger is upon him.

The stranger is an elf, he realizes quickly as they duel, and he does not bear the marks of thralldom on him. 

Not, of course, that an elf would have to be a thrall to hate a son of Feanor.

Still, Maglor tries to reason with him when the battle leaves him enough breath. “Peace! Why should we do the Enemy’s work for him?”

“You stole my sons,” the elf growls, and -

_Oh._

Maglor stumbles at this unexpected piece of information, and Earendil takes full advantage of the opportunity to knock him to the ground and swing his sword down towards Maglor’s throat.

“No!” twin voices cry, and Maglor watches in horror as the twins, having lingered after all, launch themselves out of the trees with their daggers in hand.

Earendil flinches, sword automatically moving away from Maglor towards the noise, but he is not half-prepared for this as Maglor is. He will not react in time.

If Maglor lets those blows land, it will be the worst thing he has ever done.

He launches himself between them, and the twins cannot halt themselves in time. One blade lodges in his upper arm. The other grazes his side. They at least managed to turn their blades away.

He ignores the pain. “Peace,” he tells them. “Peace. You have no enemies here.”

“He was about to kill you,” Elros argues, glaring warily at Earendil, blade still in his hand. “Elrond?”

Elrond is already at work, examining the wounds with horrified eyes, putting pressure on the graze and having enough sense to not yet remove the blade in his shoulder. “He’ll be alright,” he says firmly, and considering his own glare at Earendil, that’s as much a threat as it is a promise.

Maglor twists around as best he can. Earendil is staring at them all like he doesn’t understand what just happened, as well he might. Maglor is still reeling from the sudden turn himself.

But it is definitely Earendil. Maglor recognizes a bit of Idril in his face, and he has a strong resemblance to his sons. Even aside from this, he has the distinctive look of a Peredhel.

This is good, Maglor tells himself firmly, and tries to ignore the sudden urge to weep.

He turns his back to Earendil in the hopes that the other man won’t stab him in the back while the children look on and tries to smile for the twins. They should be happy, and he will not ruin this for them. “I told you your father would come for you,” he says, striving for lightness. 

Both of the twins’ eyes go wide.

Elros recovers first. “Yes, and then Maedhros told you that we were too old for comforting lies. He was right. What’s really going on?”

From the corner of his eye, Maglor can see Earendil flinch.

Fortunately, Elrond seems to believe him. “You visited once when we were very small,” he says tentatively. “You brought something.”

“Little toy boats,” Earendil whispers. “I carved them myself.”

Elros’s mouth drops open before he closes it with a snap. His eyes are too bright. “Why did you attack us then?” he demands.

Maglor intercedes quickly. “I am certain his quarrel was with me, not with you.” He pushes himself to his feet, wincing at the pain. Earendil’s eyes flicker between him and the children, plainly unable to look away from either the threat or his family.

“Did mother come too?” Elrond asks in a small voice.

Earendil’s breath catches, and the grief in his eyes turns to fire as he glares at Maglor. “You didn’t tell them?” he demands.

“He didn’t have to tell us,” Elros says. “We were there.” His accusatory voice leaves a clear implication about others who were not. “We saw her turn into a bird - “

“What?” Earendil looks incredulously from his sons to Maglor like he’s expecting some hint that this is a lie Maglor has cooked up to placate them, but Elrond is nodding along.

“A white one,” he adds helpfully. “We thought she would fly back through the window for us, but she flew out to sea instead.” He frowns. “We thought she was going to find you. Is that not what happened?”

“No,” Earendil manages, clearly still not sure what to believe.

Maglor doesn’t blame him.

“So mother’s not coming back,” Elros says. He tries to sound uncaring, but his voice catches. “Are you staying this time?”

“Yes,” Earendil says. “I swear to you - “

“No oaths!” the twins shout in the unison of long practice. 

To his credit, Earendil barely pauses. “I give you my word, I will not leave you willingly again.”

The twins look at each other. After a moment of private communication, they nod.

Maglor tries to tell himself his heart is not sinking. This is for the best. This was always the plan, to give up the children should it ever be safe to do so. That they are almost the sole light left in his life does not matter. That he loves them as if they were his own does not matter. They are not his.

“Everything else can wait until we’re back at camp then,” Elrond decides. 

Earendil looks relieved. Maglor quietly starts to back away.

“We should hurry so that you can get your shoulder looked at,” Elrond adds, looking guiltily at Maglor.

Earendil and Maglor both freeze.

“He’s coming with us?” Earendil asks warily.

“Of course he is,” Elros says in some confusion. “It’s his camp too, and there’s no sense in the four of us heading there separately.”

Maglor and Earendil look at each other. The moment hangs somewhat awkwardly.

“I believe your father meant to take you back to _his_ camp,” Maglor finally manages to say.

Elrond frowns at his father. “I know you may have things to gather, but surely it can wait until Maglor is tended to?”

And with yet another sinking feeling, Maglor surveys the confusion present on both of their faces and realizes that the twins truly do not understand.

It’s Earendil’s job to explain, he decides, swaying a little. Rations have been short, and his have been shorter as he has given up as much as he dares to make sure the twins will have enough, and the blood loss has destroyed this delicate balance. He is no condition to explain this.

Elrond notices and is at his side in an instant. 

“It’s this way,” Elros tells his father before darting ahead to lead the way into the trees.

As he passes, Maglor catches a familiar glint in Elros’s eyes, and with sudden suspicion he looks down into Elrond’s too innocent face.

He is beginning to suspect the twins understand after all, but at the moment, neither he nor Earendil is in much position to argue their far more reasonable points.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slight AU of the previous chapter, in which the Earendil's road was a bit more dangerous.
> 
> It was written for Hamelin-born, who wanted Earendil and Maglor, hurt/comfort, and "It followed me home, can I keep it?"

Maglor hears the twins cry out and curses himself for a fool for letting them out of sight even for a moment. He runs ahead into the clearing with its shining pool that he checked for dangers just this morning.

The pool still stands unpoisoned. More or less. There is, after all, an elf slowly leaking blood into it.

Elros stands guard over him with far too much wariness for his young years, knives at the ready. Elrond crouches beside him, examining the wound on his arm. Both look up when Maglor runs into the clearing, something he’ll have to scold them for later. At least one of them should have kept their eyes on the other potential threat.

“He’s hurt,” Elrond says unnecessarily. “I think his arm got infected.”

The wounded elf’s fever glazed eyes have been locked on the boys throughout all of this. Only as Maglor approaches do his eyes drift upward.

He immediately reaches for a sword he is half laying on and cannot possibly draw. “Back,” he rasps, “Back! Away from them!”

Maglor kneels slowly, hands outstretched. “Peace, friend,” he says and laces just a touch of power into the words. “Peace. Rest. You have no enemies here.”

The words are bitter on his tongue. He has earned the fear in this elf’s eyes, though he tries to comfort himself by thinking that perhaps the other elf is delirious and not really thinking of him at all when he cringes back from Maglor’s touch.

But his movements are slower now. Less able to resist.

“Not infected,” Maglor says quietly after a moment’s examination. “Poisoned. An orc blade, I would think, perhaps a week back. Some of their poisons mimic infections, but the final results are even more deadly.”

Elrond nods solemnly, obviously committing the information to memory. “How will we treat him, then?”

There is no doubt at all in Elrond’s voice that they will treat him, that this stranger they have found will be allowed back into their camp.

Maedhros might not like it. It’s a risk.

He looks up into their expectant eyes and then down into the quiet dread of the wounded elf’s. 

Of course they will help him, he thinks firmly. The Oath does not at all apply to this. They have not fallen so far as to trouble those innocent of standing between them and their Oath.

“First we must get him back to camp,” he says firmly. With rations cut as short as they are - and his own shorter than most as he strives to make sure the Peredhel’s growth will not be stunted as some of Men’s children are - he is not sure enough in his own strength to try the deed alone. “Elros, run swiftly back to the camp and fetch - fetch Lauriel.” She’s the least likely to question him.

Elros nods and takes off like an arrow from a bow.

This war has turned them all to weapons.

He looks back down at the wounded elf, who is watching the departing child with desperate eyes. Maglor smiles. Faking these is far easier than it used to be. He’s had long practice. “You’ll be just fine,” he promises. “Elrond, have you given him any water?”

Elrond shakes his head but hastens to do just that.

“Help will be here in a moment,” Maglor promises while Elrond helps the stranger drink. The elf seems strangely reluctant to relinquish Elrond’s touch. Is he from Sirion? “May I ask your name?”

“Earendil,” the stranger says with surprising strength before the fever surges again and catches him in delirium dreams.

Elrond jerks as if hit.

Maglor feels much the same.

Elrond’s eyes dart between the two of them. “He - he can’t be. Can he?”

“I don’t see why not,” Maglor manages. Suddenly his throat seems to be the one parched.

Elrond’s hand closes around his father’s, his _real_ father’s wrist. Maglor reminds himself that this has no right to hurt. “We’ll still take him back with us. Won’t we?”

Maglor does his best to swallow. “Of course we will,” he says. “Of course.”

 

Outside the tent of healing where the twins wait with their delirious father is not where Maglor would prefer to do this, but Maedhros is in one of his fell moods and has apparently decided it can’t wait.

“He actually followed us?” Maedhros asks incredulously.

“I did tell the twins he would.”

Maedhros doesn’t dignify this with a response. That had been a comforting lie, and by this point even the twins knew it.

Only apparently this lie has turned into the truth.

“And you brought him the rest of the way.” Maedhros rubs his face tiredly. “What do you plan to do with him now?”

“He has to stay here at least till he heals.” Anything else is a death sentence.

“At least?” Maedhros’s voice turns sharp.

Maglor’s shoulders tighten even as he shrugs. “Three hostages are better than two?” he tries.

“We don’t have the men to set up a constant watch,” Maedhros says. “And we would _need_ a constant watch. He’d have to be a true prisoner, and soon he wouldn’t be the only one. Do you really think the twins will stay happy to be with us long with their real father returned and telling him the truth of us?”

“We’ve never hidden that,” Maglor says quietly. “They might … “ He doesn’t know. Maedhros is right, of course. They can’t keep Earendil like he’s a spare puppy found in almost forgotten Tirion. “So we can’t keep him here,” he says in defeat. 

“When he’s well we let him go. We let them all go.” Maedhros’s tone is firm, but there’s sympathy in his eyes. Sympathy and perhaps a little fear. He reaches out carefully, like he’s afraid Maglor might break.

Maglor feels a bit like he might break. He allows the touch. But - “One elf, freshly recovered, and two children, alone in the wilderness, is a death sentence. It’s a long way to the Isle of Balar.”

“Gil-Galad would slaughter anyone we sent. We can’t ask that of our people.”

“I volunteer,” Maglor says instantly. He hasn’t been planning this, but it makes sense. The path unfolds straight before him.

“No,” Maedhros growls. His grip tightens painfully. “Absolutely not. I can’t - Don’t ask me to allow that.” The fear is in full force now. “Don’t ask me to face this alone,” he adds, so quietly no one else has a prayer of hearing.

“Then we’re out of solutions,” Maglor says in defeat.

Maedhros’s lips press together. “We’ll think of something.”

“Of course,” Maglor says dully. “Excuse me.”

He ducks into the tent. The twins have fallen asleep on the ragged rug by the makeshift bed. They’re holding hands for comfort as they haven’t now for years.

Earendil is awake and coherent, though probably not for long; his eyes snap from them to the tent flap when Maglor comes in. Maglor holds up his hands to show he is free from weapons.

“You heard, I assume,” he murmurs. The last thing he wants is to wake the twins.

“I heard,” Earendil says. He swallows hard and looks back down at his sons. “They can do so much already.”

“They’re growing up well,” Maglor says with pride he cannot help, no matter how little earned it is. 

“But they’re still so small.” Earendil looks back up at him, and there is nothing of pride left in his eyes. “I cannot get them from here to the Isle of Balar alone. I thought - I don’t know what I thought. That things were not quite so bad as this when I last walked these lands, perhaps. I should have realized things would have gotten worse. I never should have come without a better plan to take them back. Do not - _Please_. For the sake of whatever pity stayed your hand then, please do not send them out to die for my failure. Do what you will with me, but please do not doom them to the dangers that wait in this land.”

It takes Maglor a moment to claim his voice from the shame that has cloaked it. “I will not agree to any plan that would expose them to that,” he says firmly. “Little as you may believe it of me, I love them far too well to allow it. I will find some way to see you and them to whatever safety might be left, you have my word.”

“And we have all learned how you will hold to that,” Earendil murmurs, eyes already fighting to stay open. 

“Yes,” Maglor says softly. Pained. “Sleep now. All will still be as well as may be when you waken.” There’s very little of power in his words, but there hardly needs to be. Earendil’s body has been pushed past endurance.

The moment Earendil’s eyes firmly close, the twins’ snap open. Maglor bites back a groan. He might have known.

“How much of that did you hear?” he asks, mindful to speak quietly.

“All of that,” Elrond says, nodding to Earendil.

“And most of what you said to Maedhros,” Elros concludes. “You know you forgot an option when you were talking to him.”

“Oh?” Maglor is desperate enough to listen to just about anything.

“Instead of him talking us around like you were afraid of,” Elrond says in his most reasonable tone of voice, “we could talk him around. And we can all stay here together.”

Maglor thinks of burned Sirion and shakes his head. “How could you possibly convince him of that?”

“It’s the only way we’ll all be safe,” Elros says. “Of course he’ll come around.”

“If he really wants to stay with us,” Elrond adds with more uncertainty.

“Of course he will,” Maglor says. “He came back, didn’t he?”

Elrond nods. “Now if only Mama will come back, the six of us can be a proper family!”

Maglor chokes at this depiction of a ‘proper’ family, even as his heart warms at the word _six._


End file.
